


To Always Forgive Me

by okaywhateverokayyes



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex's POV, Canon Compliant, Flashback, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scenes, One-Shot, Protective Alex Manes, post 1x04, references to past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 10:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaywhateverokayyes/pseuds/okaywhateverokayyes
Summary: Prompt: Isobel asks Alex to stop Michael from doing something rash, because of course he is. (Post 1x04)The thing about Michael was, he never forgets. Even if he wanted to, it was impossible for him to. His worst burden, Alex notes. He had probably etched the words into the matrix of his bones, scorching it into his mind only to replay it repeatedly, distastefully-Alex had the luxury of drawing a blank. It took years of practice but he was adept at it.





	To Always Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's my take on Isobel seeking out Alex to stop Michael from doing something rash (post 1x04) and dwells into Alex's state of mind. 
> 
> Of course, both are pining idiots who are hurt in their own ways so it's not going to immediately solve the unsettling pain and anger they have towards each other. It barely scratches the surface of their misery.
> 
> {Also, I created a dog for Alex because everyone needs a dog named Toby.}

Alex rubs behind Toby’s ears, an easy smile settles on his face as the dog kneels bemusedly beside him, laying against his thigh as he ran his hand down his back. He leans over to press his lips against the paw resting on the sole of his shoe, gentle as he sets his foot down.

 

A jeep pulls into his driveway, a familiar army surplus. Isobel is swift as she slams the door, striding in his direction, offering a smile as an afterthought rather than out of convention.

 

 “You need to stop Michael.”

 

Alex blinks.

 

Alex stands up hastily, his knee buckling from under him as a result of his swiftness. He winces as he shoves his crane into the soot, gawkily kneeling on one foot whilst he rests his elbow on the other.

 

Isobel was at his side, gripping him as she bolsters his weight as he moves to the timber porch post and rests against it. He is haggard as he catches his breath.

 

“Thanks.” He says, responsively.

 

She flicks her wrist, off-handedly. Isobel fixates on him, naturally, yet it does nothing but make Alex answer her glance with an apologetic smile.

 

“Is he leaving town?” He inquires, not entirely sure if Tennessee was ever not considered. Or, ever considered. 

 

Isobel shakes her head, parting her lips as if what he had said was preferable to what Michael was about to do. “Something stupider. Unnecessary. Dangerous.” She adds, drawing her brows inward. “So, stop him.”

 

Alex’s apologetic smile fades into a slightly uncertain one.

 

“What do you think I can-?”

 

Isobel adopts a slightly altered pose, crossing her arms briskly across her chest. “ _Alex_.” She says, impatiently, “We don’t have time to go back and forth.”

 

“Isobel, you and I both know that when he sets his mind onto something, he’s going to go through with it.” He snaps, wanting to add ‘ _Whether we like it or not’_ but settles against it.

 

Isobel considers this. “You and I both know that’s not true,” she says with a familiarity that precluded Alex, “ _Please_ , do me this favor.”

 

If he was being honest, he didn’t need to be impelled. The thought of Michael having done something out of sheer indignation was emblematic of Guerin.

 

Alex accedes deferentially.

 

He ends up at Crashdown café, Isobel paying for his roast beef sandwich as consolation- as if he needed any; just to consume time, as needed, she ordered a fudge-blast off, orbit rings and a shower malt. When the order came in, Isobel had taken a bite of each, a cursory sip and dunked the ring into hot fudge.

 

Alex begrudgingly takes a bite of his sandwich. It tasted insipid. Or, maybe the flavor was unable to be savored by his parched mouth and numb tongue. His thoughts wavered nervously, fingers trembling as he pressed them in between his legs. His chest throbbed.

 

 _Shit_. The idea that Guerin was about to do something shortsighted, inflamed him. Because, _shit_. Why did he decide it upon himself to be crucified and vilified?

 

 _No_ , he decides, _Guerin probably thought it over a thousand-and-one times_ before considering doing anything that put himself, Isobel or Max at risk. He was just that thorough with his decisions. When the past itches to resurface, Alex clears his throat.

 

Isobel scrunches up her nose, batting away at the waitress- _Madeline_ \- who appears by their table to refill their water. Alex offers an apologetic smile in return as she stilts on her heel to turn, rattled.

 

The _clink_ of a glass slamming against the table has Alex whisking his head around. “Are you-“ He goes to ask, only to pause. 

 

“There’s not enough acetone in this god forsaken world for my headache,” she rubs at her temple. “Never enough.” She’s gruff as she scoops a spoon of the malt, only to pause momentarily when her eyes catch onto something-not her particular choice of word which has Alex drawing his brows inwards-but _someone_.

 

Isobel waves her hand distinctly, flicking her wrist as to get their attention.

 

“You shouldn’t have. An exodus bash, for me?” Guerin’s voice cuts through the unspoken uneasiness stretching between the table separating the two. Isobel hisses condemningly, eyes wavering from Michael to where Alex crouched, urgent.

 

Michael stills, abruptly. Alex doesn’t have to look up to see the grin falling off of his face. Two clenched fists are jabbed to his sides as he adjusts his tone, his attention elsewhere. “What did you do, Izzy?” It’s sharp, furious, on the verge of sounding irritated.

 

He feels secluded, unwelcome.

 

Alex bristles where he sat.

 

“I’ll leave you to it.” There’s a warning intonation. Isobel mouths ‘thank you’ in Alex’s direction, squeezing Michael’s shoulder as she makes a beeline towards the crowded entrance.

 

Michael doesn’t move. There’s tenseness that settles in his posture. “Whatever she said to make you come here, forget it. She won’t hold it against you.” He says, his voice low and rough with restlessness.

 

Alex thumbs at the ham sticking out, biting his lip. His mouth begins to prickle with microscopic thorns that has him reaching for the glass of water. He takes a quiet sip, gulping, only to have the thistles penetrate outwards, his nerves ignited to the point where he jabs his curled hand into his thigh.

 

Cool hands are pressed against his. Alex flickers his eyes open, which he hadn’t noticed he had shut close. He watches as Michael sits across him. His gaze moves to their bridged hands near the empty glass. Ostensibly, he feels the air leave out the room yet he lets out a freeing exhale he doesn’t realize he’s holding in, until Michael pulls back.

 

“Sorry.” He whispers, face clipped as he settles into the booth, leans against the side towards the wall, a habit by now.

 

They hold each other’s gaze. Alex struggles to think of how to initiate, opens his mouth but clamps it back down. It’s almost unsettling how even after all this time, the thought of dissuading Guerin seemed not only impossible, but unwarranted. Unwelcoming.

 

The uncertainty of where Alex stood in their _friendship_ had him reminiscing of his second tour. When he woke up, both panicked and dopey with painkillers, a terrible combination that lead to him flailing sideways off the hospital bed, unable to speak with his numb, heavy tongue. It took a solid ten minutes for the medics to convince him that he wasn’t dead, that _he was in a hospital, that he was alive_.

 

Just his leg, they heed to mention. The loss of his limb had him at first, dazed because _surely, this must be a dream_. When he first reached to ram his bruised fingers into the sheet of where his shin should have been, only to press into the mattress, he bit down on his tongue to repress the sob clamped in his throat.

 

 _Dead_ ,  _he surely must be dead_. For a little too long, he preferred that over what he was: 3/4 of a human. 

 

Everything afterwards was a blur. Sensibly present, inherently absent. Removed. Uninhabited. Gone. Two tours later, he wasn’t convinced that the torture he had slighted in the abyss of his mind had ever left.  

 

He was sure he was a word away from disintegrating.

 

“Don’t do it.” Alex blurts forcefully, not entirely sure of what _it_ entailed, takes a deep breath and says, a little shakily, “Just, don’t do it. Don't go anywhere.” His lower lip trembles. He quickly bites it harshly.

 

Utter confusion met his comment. “What?”

 

“ _I_ don’t want you to go,” he repeats, emphasizing the distinctive ‘I’ to make it evident that this was him, out of his own volition, saying it.

 

Michael reacts as if he is slapped. Because, ten years ago, he was the one to say that to Alex. It occurs to Alex that the tables have turned, the words are incendiary and suggestive of the manner in which they had fallen on deaf ears, his ears, back then.

 

“That’s not fair.” He grunts, drawing a sharp breath in. “ _Fuck you_.” It's void of any malice. 

 

Cold fear seizes Alex. He knows he’s being hypocritical. He knows that he has lost his agency, his right to ask Michael of something. It dawns upon him that it’s the only way he knows how to make him reconsider.

 

He bites the proverbial bullet as he recounts what needs to be said, “I felt too much pride back then to listen to you,” he answers a question that’s not asked but heavily weighing on the both of them, “I didn’t know-didn’t think that I could do what I wanted back then.”

 

Guerin is rigid, immobile, eyes glazed as he glares right into him. He says nothing, in return. It dawns upon Alex that the memories were all-too-clear and the numerous questions, all-left-unanswered.

 

“I didn’t tell you what happened that night because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore than I already had.”

 

Prom. He shows up empty-handed because he cancels last minute. Can’t go through with it. Hates how self-righteous his father feels as he takes a picture, that Alex was doing the right thing, by bringing someone, a _girl,_ to the dance. He spurns when his father engages in a jovial chit-chat with her, as if she’s his saving grace.  As if she’s fixing something, fixing  _him_ , as if needed to be repaired. 

 

Alex lets her know in the parking lot of the school that he’s _tired, not really interested_ and tells her that he’s _sorry_ before he asks her to get out, rigidly.

 

He hopes Michael does the same. Anger looms within him when he notices the blonde beside Guerin the entire night. She’s laughing at something he says, links their elbows together. Michael’s grinning ear to ear. It impales Alex. He leaves abruptly before the second song even plays. Doesn’t even realize that he has over 11 missed calls, from _him_ that night, until the day after, when he’s at the army reserve handing in his filled-out application.

 

He doesn’t check his voice-mail, not when he’s having his premature sendoff-get-together with his brothers and others, in the military personnel, people he wouldn’t have even known if it weren’t for his dad. Not when he received his order to mobilize at an operating base in Herat. Not when he takes the day off to say his goodbyes, to everyone but _him_. Not when he removes the sim from his phone and slips it behind the casing of a photo-frame.

 

He says things out of anger when Michael slips in through his window the day before he’s set to leave. Everything, forgotten, mostly burnt from his mind so he doesn’t have over 800 words that if unveiled, would have disintegrated him on the spot.

 

A pang goes through Alex. He knows that Michael hasn’t forgotten a single thing. It’s the way in which he grits down on his jaw, the jowls of his chin protruding out from under his skin. Michael stabs his fingers into the soles of his palms, his flesh turning white in the surrounding area. His face is void of any color. The blood rushes out and seeps under the fabric of his jacket.

 

The thing about Michael was, he never forgets. Even if he wanted to, it was impossible for him to. His worst burden, Alex notes. He had probably etched the words into the matrix of his bones, scorching it into his mind only to replay it repeatedly, distastefully-

 

Alex had the luxury of drawing a blank. It took years of practice but he was adept at it.

 

“I’m sorry, Michael.” He starts with, feeling immediately overcome by how long it’s taken him to even say it, “I’m sorry for _everything_.” Alex hopes it’s inherent that everything meant absolutely every. Single. Thing.

 

Michael is bitter as he scoffs, emotion making his voice tight. “You can’t do this.” He’s mostly speaking to himself. He rubs at his face as he laments into the palms of his hand. There’s defeat wearing thin on his shoulders; As if he’s imagined this exact conversation countless times but never concocted an outcome that would be sufficive enough to mitigate years of absolute agony he endured.

 

“You  _can’t do this_ ,” he’s breathless as he repeats. He looks disoriented, reaches for the other glass of water and quaffs it down in futility. It doesn’t help.  Alex reaches instinctively towards Michael, recognizes the conflict, far-too familiar with it himself-but stills when Michael gets on his feet abruptly.

 

The sound cuts through the raucous room, everyone’s head whipped in the direction of the _thud_.

 

“ _I need air_ ,” Michael is tight with fury and hurt; wistful eyes meet his, albeit for a second, before he strides out the diner, his torment puncturing into every stomp he made.

 

Alex tosses his head back, lips pressed in a thin, exasperated line; Alex owed Michael a lot. He owed Michael so much more than a mere apology. He owed him his time, his space,  _him_.

 

Alex felt the familiar light-headedness, knows what’s to come. The detachment, the inhibition, the folds enclosing the sealed thoughts in his mind, threatening to unfold.

 

He reaches into his pocket, throws two bills of twenty, somehow makes it into his truck, drives out of town, into his driveway, into his room. He goes to close the blinds, removes the comforter off of his bed and kicks off his shoes.

 

Toby is scratching on the door to his room. He’s locked out. The scratching is incessant but not painful to Alex’s heightened hearing. He settles furthest away from the window, curls up on the wood floor with a blanket and uses his elbow to support his head.

 

He has his phone beside him, has it on silent but watches the screen keenly. His eyes are heavy, lids looming lower. Alex presses his nose to the floor, breathes in the musk and concentrates on the splinters in the footboard slat.

 

It’s only when Isobel sends him a wordy ‘thank you, thank you, thank you…’ message does Alex succumb to his exhaustion.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr: okaywhateverokayyes


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